A/N: Happy (belated) New Year, guys! I wish you to have the most awesome and most prosperous 2020 to start the new decade and for all of your wishes to come true! We're starting this year with the first chapter of a new part. Personally, it's my favorite, so... Enjoy

(This is like an intro chapter of what happened with are three main characters *spoiler* two years after the events described in the previous chapter. Some DC characters, which I don't own, popping in!)

"What are your plans for the evening?" Robb asked with a smile. Winnifred absently raised her eyes at her co-worker and smiled back. Sammy would've asked if she wanted to buy extra Heineken at his house tonight. Billy would've bluntly asked her if she wanted to hold a sleepover or not.

"No, I'm sorry, I have some work to do," she sighed, closing her portfolio and standing up. Died-streaked Reese immediately jumped up next to her.

"Sorry? Why are you sorry?" She instantly inquired. Winnifred involuntarily held her breath. She didn't know why. It just happened.

"I'm sorry that I can't spend the evening with Robbie," she tiredly answered, pushing the doors open. She thought she saw Robb slightly befuddled, while Reese immediately prodded at her new reply.

"He never said that he'll spend the evening with you! And for heavens' sakes, stop using that annoying diminutive! We're not in the country, remember?"

Winnifred nodded, to tired to pun that they are technically in the country called United States of America. She simply hitched a taxi.

"See you guys tomorrow," Winnifred tossed over her shoulder, quickly waving to Robb with a smile and curtly glancing at Reese. The door slammed behind her. An aroma of worn leather, peanuts, and stale air freshener, complete with gang rap quietly jamming from the radio, instantly clouded over Winnifred. For a moment, that door separated her from the honking, busy, crowded outside world and left face to face with the saturated aroma. The black cab driver with an old, pleated cap expectantly waited for her to answer.

"Where to?"

"Letalis Avenue," Winnifred answered, rummaging through her purse. The seat next to her was occupied by several tattered, large bags covered with a few crumpled jackets. Winnifred's feet were uncomfortably propped up by a cardboard box on the bottom. Winnifred didn't notice and took out a small mirror from her bag. Her eyes droopily stared back at her from the murky glass, emphasized by the greenish-grey semi circles underneath. She must have made quite a sight. A hag in young woman's skirts. How funny. Winnifred slapped the mirror shut and glanced out the window.

"Here, please, thank you," she stopped the cab driver. "How much?"

"Seven fifty five."

Winnifred quickly glanced down at her wallet, before taking out a five and three.

"Keep the change."

Winnifred walked out, slamming the door behind her, and turned on the avenue diverging from Letalis. Her eyes automatically drifted up on the sign.

Risu Boulevard. Winnifred turned her body side-ways and carefully began walking as such, heels cautiously moving around the cracked bottles and greasy pizza cartons. She made it to the third apartment on the right side and, quickly jumping over the puddle right in front of the steps, ran up the stairs. She swiftly unlocked the door and walked in.

The empty air heavily dropped down on her chest. Winnifred silently studied the apartment with her eyes. A narrow hallway embroidered with her junk tiptoed in front of her. Winnifred sighed and tossed her bag underneath her coats hanging on the wall, kicked her heels somewhere next to it, and walked into the living room. She collapsed on her miniature couch, legs resting on its handles. Her blue eyes passed the apartment once more. The second year was just beginning. She still couldn't get used to it. Winnifred didn't like the shape of the glass flowers on top of the light bulbs of the lamp plopped on the ceiling, she hated the color of the bookshelf with barely enough books to live through the winter, and the rug stanching of cat food seemed out of place. Missus Haggard, the apartment's owner and Winnifred's matron, was kind though. Grouchy, but kind. Speaking of, there she went, trotting into the living room. A stout, old woman in a simple, faded dress with a faded apron, the pink color barely seen from age and multiple culinary traumas it experienced. Her tan, crumpled with wrinkles face squinted at the young woman.

"Came back, did ya? Resting, huh?"

Winnifred wordlessly unbuttoned her vest with one hand, silently watching her matron.

"Whose gonna do theses dishes? Does young lady expect the Roman himself to drag you from that couch? Get to work!"

Winnifred obediently tossed her legs off the couch and, leaving her vest there, walked past Haggard. A slow smile crept over her face. Mrs. Haggard slapped her upper arm and threw her the apron. Winnifred chuckled and quickly tied the apron around her waist. The kitchen was small and also out of place, like everything else. Winnifred walked up to the sink and stared at the tiny, measly little cup half full with water-diluted coffee. Grinning under her breath, Winnifred turned on the faucet, filled the cup with water, and dumped it out.

The light softly illuminated the bare room. The gritty blinds barely let that softness in. Yet it still awoke Johnathan.

The doctor blinked. His fingers automatically touched the papers on his desk, eyes feverishly scanning the room, before calming down and sighing. He fell asleep while working again. Johnathan rubbed his eyes, knuckles inevitably moving his glasses up. The touch of the cool plastic triggered a sudden thought in him. Does he have glasses in his dreams? He never felt them because they were so natural to him. Never mind.

Johnathan pushed back the chair and stood up. He quickly collected the papers on his desk into a folder and walked out. The Arkham Asylum corridors also became natural. For a while, these rustic, grave walls surprisingly seemed very unnatural to the very much hated walls of the Local Hospital. The unlimited freedom to do anything was also unnatural. The first experiment on the convicted patient was unnatural. However, everything unnatural soon becomes natural.

Nonetheless, the DA Rachel Dawes with a cop following her walking down down the hallway was pretty unnatural. Johnathan subdued the slight stir of amusement and calmly approached her. Johnathan stopped in front of them, slightly raising his eye brows.

"You're quite early Miss Dawes, how can I help you?"

The woman defiantly held his gaze.

"I assume you're Johnathan Crane, the asylum's owner after Jeremiah Arkham?"

Johnathan indifferently shrugged.

"You are correct, miss." There was a pause. Rachel crossed her arms on her chest, her cautious gaze never leaving his face. The police officer silently stood behind her.

"You have criminal Waylon Jones under your custody?" Rachel coldly inquired.

"Yes."

"I need to interrogate him. The permission is with me. If you need permission, that is."

Johnathan quietly smirked under his breath and turned around.

"Follow me, please."

He walked down the dimly illuminated hallways, sensing Dawes's irritation and pulsing suspicion behind him. Unlike all of those other so-called executers of the law, she was the only one who questioned his experiments at Arkham. Johnathan stopped next to a metal door and turned the key, quickly punching in the code after. The heavy door opened, exposing the brightly illuminated room. A tall, muscular man with almost reptilian features was confined to a chair in the middle. His small, blood-filled eyes darted at the people entering his room.

"Good morning, Mister Jones," Johnathan quietly greeted the criminal. He turned to the district attorney behind him.

"I'm afraid we have only one chair, Miss Dawes, and that one is already reserved. You'll have to stand."

Rachel shot him a killing stare and walked up to Jones. She kneeled down to him, leveling their eyes. Johnathan crossed his hands behind his back, the shadows hiding his face.

"Are you Waylon Jones?" Rachel quietly asked, eyes searching the crude face. The criminal glanced at her with contempt. Rachel pretended not to notice.

"Did you murder the family on Sixth Avenue?" Jones was silent. Rachel narrowed her eyes, knuckles paling from propping up on her knees.

"Did you murder Gabriel Calato, Anna Calato, and their children Felipe and Toto Calato?"

Silence. Johnathan observed Rachel's face from the shadows; she was a great actress. Annoyance was rolling off of her in waves, yet none appeared on her face.

"Jones, if you do not answer me you will face the law for disobeying a government official."

Jones's rough lips curled into a short smile, the dry skin crackling at the motion.

"I really don't see how my situation will be worsened."

Rachel finally straightened up, lips twitching in irritation. There was a smirk. Johnathan wordlessly stepped in front of Rachel and lowered down on his knees, staring at Jones. Rachel rolled her eyes, but Johnathan pretended not to notice.

"Are you Killer Croc?"

There was a sound of crackling skin.

"Yes."

Rachel turned in surprise. Johnathan observed the criminal for a second.

"Who were the Calatos? They were a mafia family, right?"

Jones was silent for a moment, his eyes somewhere beyond Johnathan's shoulder. Then, he slowly nodded. Johnathan bit his lips, thinking something to himself.

"Do you know who stands after it?"

Jones's small eyes drilled into Jonathan's.

"Why should I reveal them, Doctor?" He smirked. Johnathan shrugged.

"Criminals do not have a sense of comradity which the police has, and you can easily kill any offenders if they have the courage to accuse you," he quietly noticed, eyes tiredly wandering on the walls above Jones's head.

"Especially that you didn't kill them."

Jones shrugged, relaxing against the chair.

"I don't know." He glanced at Rachel. "I'd say it's the mafia which cocked them."

Johnathan was staring to the side, before forcefully returning his gaze back at the criminal.

"Anything else?"

"Only that I don't what Tetcher in my cage again."

"Fair enough." Johnathan stood up and nodded to Rachel.

"Anything else?" The woman glared at him in contempt for repeating the same question he said to a criminal.

"No, I'm done."

They silently walked out, and Johnathan closed the door. Rachel impatiently drummed her fingers on her crossed arms.

"What was that?" She angrily asked, after Johnathan turned away from the door. Johnathan lifted his eye brows and began making his way down the corridor.

"That was a properly conducted interrogation which government officials have now apparently lost the knack on. What were you thinking when you called him by his name?"

"Oh, forgive me for not knowing your criminal jargon," Rachel snorted, following him.

"You should know it considering that it's your job," Johnathan coldly retorted, dismissing her emphasis on your. He stopped next to his office and took out the keys. Rachel sarcastically tilted her head.

"I'm afraid that if I'll learn the criminal book cover to cover someone may not be able to keep their job."

Johnathan leaned on the door and pushed it open, but didn't go in.

"No need to worry, I can keep my job," he quietly noticed, looking at Rachel. The woman lifted her eyebrows.

"Just like the one at the university?"

"If you consider my goal of leaving it which was established since the first day of my lecturing, yes."

Rachel squinted.

"How do you know that Jones didn't kill the family?"

"Because if Croc killed them, all of their bones would be broken. And since they died from knife stabs and not neck twisting, it's obviously not Croc."

"Alright," Rachel parried,"Do you have any cooked up criminals which use knives as their killing mark?"

Johnathan smirked. "Not yet." He entered his office and closed the door, indicating that their conversation was over.

The light bulb nervously flickered in the garage. Little groups of people scattered around the metal room, suspiciously looking around. The lowest levels of Gotham, in their simple beauty. A anorexic-looking punk leaning on the wall monotonously tossed up and down a little pocketknife. Criss crossed on the floor, a dirty woman with coarse facial features in her late thirties punched her magazine in and out of the gun. A young man was rocking on the two legs of his chair facing the wall. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the garage seemed to change; it became alive. A few people entered. In front of them was a not very tall, not very stout, light olive-skinned man with burning eyes and a skull earring. He stepped out to the table in the center and silently scanned the room with his eyes.

"Well."

The dispersed groups instantly gathered around the table. The punk snapped his pocketknife shut and walked up to the larger group. The crude woman stood up and approached them as well. The young man continued tilting on his chair. The skull-ear in the center looked over the group again.

"The Calato affair didn't go as well as planned," he quietly said in his low, husky voice.

"Who was at post?"

Everyone glanced at the punk. That one defensively spread his hands open.

"Hey, I was only doin' my job! Lena was in charge of everything else!"

"If you didn't make such a loud noise next to the trashbins, we wouldn't be in this fucking mess," the woman gritted through her teeth.

"Fucking excuse me?"

The skull-ear apathetically raised his hand. Both parties fell silent, still glaring at each other.

"You know that our job requires no traces," skull-ear quietly noticed. His eyes ignited.

"Lena, you worked here for twelve years, I'm not worried. Spockey, this is your last warning."

"Gracias, Calavera," Lena nodded. Spockey' face remained calm, but his tattoos seemed darker on the paling skin.

"But that's not what I wanted to tack about," Calavera suddenly switched his tone, increasing the volume.

"We have some new folks joining us. Gerry?" A long limbed, pale teenager stepped forward. Some strange animosity twisted his face.

"Folks, this is Gerry," Calavera amiably introduced him. "Gerry, why do you want to join?"

"Because I like it," Gerry said, almost growled. There was a slight whisper around the crowd, agreement presumably. Calavera smirked and sat down on the chair rolled over by his henchman.

"You like it? That's a fair reason. "Did you ever do it?"

Gerry was quiet for a moment. "No."

"Of course," Lena quietly snorted. "Never did it. All of them don't."

"No matter, we'll get him tuned," Calavera shrugged. "And what about you?" He inquired, addressing the man tilting on the chair. Everyone automatically turned his way.

"Why are you interested?"

The young man titled his head back, glancing at the ceiling, but didn't turn around.

"It's the only job which I can get."

"Whoa," someone in the crowd whistled. "That's desperate." Calavera ignored the jokester, curious and slightly annoyed.

"Really? That's all?"

"Did you even kill?" A burly man on the right spat. The "folks" next to him grumbled in agreement. The man suddenly turned on his chair. Lena sucked in her breath. Two long scars stretched from the young man's lips. This horrid picture was unnervingly diluted by a little cat purring in the man's arms. The man stood up and walked over the table.

"Those squealers didn't want to hear a word when they saw 'em," Heath sighed, letting little Magdalena jump from his arms. The little cat happily began jogging on the table.

"And I killed nine people."